So sometimes, life teaches me things I don’t particularly want to know about myself.
One of those things is that despite literal decades of study of mindfulness, and Taoism, I’m not a patient person. Particularly with myself.
It’s not even been three weeks since Spacey’s death. As you might imagine, I’m a mess.
Some days, I’m carried aloft by decades of happy memories, shared laughter, the delight of shared work, values, and priorities. Other days, all those things wrap around me like a shroud, holding me so tight I can barely move, barely breathe.
I’ve been having a whole lot of trouble sleeping. I wake up around 3 in the morning, remembering seeing him at the viewing, touching his body, and feeling how cold it was. As opposed to the way he gripped my hand so tight, just the week before.
When people bring him up, I’m inclined to burst into tears.
I don’t concentrate well.
I alternate between not wanting to eat at all, and gorging myself on foods.
It’s not a surprise really. Anyone and EVERYONE I’ve been talking to about this, has assured me that this is all perfectly natural.
Except to me. Because I often seem unable to treat myself with the same patience, kindness, and compassion I give so easily to everyone else.
Today I slept in until around noon. I mindlessly watched television.
At one point, with my partners Squee and Moliére’s urging, I took a shower, put on fresh pajama pants, and, you guessed it - made myself some chicken nuggets.
We watched Ted Lasso together, remotely.
I leaned into my love of the show, and shared it with them. It helped me a ton.
Sometimes, simple comfort food and care from others is what’s important to have. I’m not required to operate at peak efficiency all the time. Sometimes you have to rest.